


look at me now (im falling)

by zephryus



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing Clothes, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, this is just fluff with a healthy amount of anti-java propaganda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephryus/pseuds/zephryus
Summary: Folded neatly on top of all of his own clothes is George's slightly-too-big grey hoodie, with a bright yellow post-it stuck on,until we see each other again, this might be a suitable substitute.Dream misses him so much he thinks he's going to melt into a useless puddle of yearning.(for the prompt: late-night calls and hoodie exchange and them missing each other)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 369





	look at me now (im falling)

**Author's Note:**

> whats up! this exists bc of poggerschamp/ediblesunshine25 on ao3!!! ty v much the prompt sort of,, got mildly away from me

“I hate it here,” Dream grumbles, just about restraining himself from sending his fist through his monitor. He’s going to die at the tender age of twenty-one, and it will be because of this one shitty little pathetic plug-in and the limitations of Java. “I fucking hate it here.”

“I bet,” George starts, grinning, “you’ve just missed a semi-colon somewhere.” Dream’s streaming his screen to him on Discord, because he’d woken George up at some awful time he only slightly feels guilty about, to ask for help on the plug-in he was meant to have finished yesterday. He doesn’t think about how he could have called Sapnap, who’s most definitely awake, and probably more coherent than George.

George has his video on, like he usually does when Dream wakes him up with a call, and he just pokes at his phone until something worlds. And if Dream’s being completely honest, seeing George when he’s just woken up, with his hair sticking up haphazardly, nothing short of fluffy, his voice thick with sleep and rough with disuse, and a shadow of stubble on his jaw, with the soft smile he seems to have just reserved for Dream, seeing all of that just turns whatever orderly and logical thoughts he currently has into pure white static.

“If that’s it, I’m quitting and going to live with you as a trophy husband,” Dream promises, half-delirious off staring at an IDE for hours, too much caffeine, and most definitely forgetting to take his Adderall.

“Ask a guy out to dinner first before you propose,” George teases, his inhibitions lowered.

“Fine,” Dream pokes at a few keys, trying to find what’s generating 42 errors, “I’ll book a flight, let’s go on a date.”

“There’s a Cineworld five minutes from my apartment, they’re playing old movies all of this week.”

“Okay,” and before he can overthink it, Dream minimises VSCode and pulls up Google to book a flight from Orlando to Heathrow for Wednesday. He sends a screenshot of the email confirmation to George. 

He’s quiet for a beat, his eyes flicking over the screen, disbelief and hope written clearly over his face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Dream says, his smile threatening to overtake his face. Half of George’s face is covered by his duvet, but Dream can still tell he’s grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his expression so bright Dream can’t believe he’s never done this before. (Of course he’s thought about it but never had the balls to– to actually do it.)

George is prettier in real life and even under the fluorescent lights of the airport, he’s gorgeous. Dream sees him, standing under the _Arrivals_ board, texting him on his phone, leaning against the wall. He sees him in his slightly-too-big grey hoodie, standing in a crowded airport, and without a single doubt, as sure as anything Dream knows he loves him– that he’s irrevocably, irreversibly in love with him.

“Hi,” Dream says, slightly breathless, but it’s okay because George looks just the same.

“Hey.” 

Dream isn’t going to do something stupid, like kiss him in the middle of an international airport surrounded by exhausted families and scarily put-together businessmen. He isn’t going to, despite how much the way George looks up at him makes him want to throw all possible caution into the wind.

Dream does, however, kiss him in the privacy of his apartment.

He’s slightly nervous, because he’s in George’s apartment, in his kitchen, because this is where he lives. A foot away there’s a dirty bowl with the remnants of cheerios next to a glass with the dregs of apple juice clinging to the side. Above it, there’s a shelf with a framed picture of his family.

“You wanna sleep? Or eat?” George asks, and Dream can tell he’s slightly nervous too because they didn’t really think past this moment, not aloud anyway.

Dream looks him in the eyes, and, almost against his will, flicks his gaze down to his lips. “I want–” _you_. 

The last part gets stuck in his throat, for as much as he’ll joke on stream like it’s nothing, or over text, when George can’t see his face, like this, looking at him barely a meter away, leaning against his countertop under the soft lights of his kitchen, he’s so far gone he’s rendered quiet, shy. 

George gets it, though, somehow, because he takes a step closer and murmurs, “Me too.” 

They’re so close Dream can count the fading freckles that spill over the bridge of George’s nose, that he can see his own reflection in George’s pupils. Dream makes the final move, tentative at first, then melting into it. He wraps his arms around George’s waist to pull him impossibly closer, the fabric of his hoodie bunches up under his arms, soft and protecting. The only thing he can feel is his lips against his, the only thing he can hear is his soft breathing, steady and sure.

George is smiling when they break apart, barely centimetres away. He nudges their noses together, affectionate and intimate, “Hi,” he says, because even though Dream bought the ticket, George was the one to suggest it, and even though Dream is the one to flirt, brash and unthinking, on stream in front of tens of thousands of people, George is the one to send a _gm <3_ text first.

“Hey,” the rest of the world rushes back in, dizzying and overwhelming after everything, so Dream just focuses on George, on his freckles, on the lines in his irises, on the feel of his hoodie under his hands, and his body under that.

Florida, somehow, feels a lot colder than London, or maybe just lonelier, even though it was in the high-seventies when he landed and his mom came to drive him home. 

He thumbs open his phone, after telling his mom about London, when they’re flying down the interstate, (Dream loves his mom, he really, really does, but she’s about as stereotypical Floridian driver as one can get), and pulls up his and George’s conversation from a few hours ago. In-flight wifi is an entire blessing. _I miss you already_ , Dream sends.

 _simp_. George sends back, barely a second later. _jk. miss u too <3_. Dream watches the typing bubble start and stop for a good five minutes until he gets: _idk if ur home yet but theres’ a present for u in ur suitcase_.

 _I’m about an hour out_ , Dream sends, using all of his very considerable self-control and restraint to not ask his mom to pull over so he can see what George got him.

On top of his clothes, and all the British sweets, folded neatly, is George’s slightly-too-big grey hoodie, with a bright yellow post-it, adorned with George’s god-awful handwriting, attached. _Until we see each other again, maybe this is a good substitute_.

 _It’s an ok substitute_ , Dream sends a snap of himself wearing it. It fits perfectly on him, and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine George is there with him.

Later, when he’s putting it away, his eyes catch on his bright blue hoodie hanging over his chair.

 _it’s a terribel subsktuite_ , George sends, a few days later, over the snap of him wearing his hoodie with the hood pulled up and the collar over his face. Only his eyes are visible, and a tuft of his dark hair. Dream remembers running his hands through it, messing it up, teasing him. He wants to wake up next to him again and see him with his hair without any product, and the way he’ll smile soft and slow before anything else registers. He misses him so much and so intensely he can barely remember a time when he didn’t.

Dream watches George’s valiant attempts to stay awake, blinking rapidly to try to stave off sleep, but drowsiness takes over. It’s sometime past 3 in the morning for Dream, and he’s having trouble staying awake, how George is still vaguely awake is beyond him.

“I just–” George gets cut off by a yawn, ducking his head into his duvet, “wanna talk to you, baby.”

Dream will insist, under duress, he’s not blushing, it’s just the shitty iPhone front camera, but by the way a lazy, smug, smile winds its way onto George’s face, he’s not fooling anyone - least of all himself. He can’t even pretend that he’s not completely and utterly wrapped around George’s little finger, especially when he smiles at him like that, and calls him saccharine-sweet names.

“Sweetheart,” George half-drunk off his lack of sleep, warm and comfortable in Dream’s hoodie, “baby, darling, honey,” he carries on, his voice as low as his inhibitions, and it takes an unimaginable amount of self-control to not tear his heart out of his chest and express-mail it over to him, with a bright yellow post-it attached, _just thought you might like it_.

“George,” Dream says, because he’s hard-pressed to come up with a nickname that’ll top George’s, and because even he can hear it in his voice, the love and the affection is there, bubbling and bursting out.

“Clay,” George says, and it may as well be _I love you_.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! i hope u enjoyed it!! leave a comment/prompt/whatever u feel like ily<3


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